I am not able to write. I am in a funk. I am taking a copy editing course; enough said.

When I take courses that are technical in nature I lose my sense of inspiration. I hate technicalities, rules, and table manners. I hate constructed morals based on a prehistoric manual of morality. Copy editing makes me crazy.

So, rather than writing I have been reading, and watching Law and Order: SVU on Netflix.

Today, I am reading We Were Liars, by E. Lockhart. I have probably mentioned that I run a Teen Book Club at work, and this is their latest choice. IT is a good choice. It deals with the intricacies and external facades families maintain to save face. It talks of priviledge and ignorance and aging. It is a white person drama, full of in-our-face fallacies of white-person life.

For some reason (for many reasons) this book made me think of my family. It than got me thinking of my mom. It got me thinking that I really miss her. It got me thinking that I want to write about it.

So here I am, writing about my mom – but not really. Thinking about her made me want to write, but she isn’t my topic today. She is my inspiration. She would want to know what I was doing while not writing. She would say about my copy editing class “you always hated being fussy.” I feel my topic today is just a conversation I would have with her.